“Out? I don't know. I shall try to drive to the office to-morrow.”
“Why the devil did you resign from all your clubs? How can I see you if I don't come here?” began Fleetwood impatiently. “I know, of course, that you're not going anywhere, but a man always goes to his club. You don't look well, Stephen. You are too much alone.”
Siward did not answer. His face and body had certainly grown thinner since Fleetwood had last seen him. Plank, too, had been shocked at the change in him—the dark, hard lines under the eyes; the pallor, the curious immobility of the man, save for his fingers, which were always restless, now moving in search of some small object to worry and turn over and over, now nervously settling into a grasp on the arm of his chair.
“How is Amalgamated Electric?” asked Fleetwood, abruptly.
“I think it's all right. Want to buy some?” replied Siward, smiling.
Plank stirred in his chair ponderously. “Somebody is kicking it to pieces,” he said.
“Somebody is trying to,” smiled Siward.
“Harrington,” nodded Fleetwood. Siward nodded back. Plank was silent.
“Of course,” continued Fleetwood, tentatively, “you people need not worry, with Howard Quarrier back of you.”
Nobody said anything for a while. Presently Siward's restless hands, moving in search of something, encountered a pencil lying on the table beside him, and he picked it up and began drawing initials and scrolls on the margin of a newspaper; and all the scrolls framed initials, and all the initials were the same, twining and twisting into endless variations of the letters S. L.